


Blood Drunk Youth

by undeadstoryteller



Series: John Mitchell: 100 Years [1]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: 1920s, Flashback, Other, PoC, blackinfanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undeadstoryteller/pseuds/undeadstoryteller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kicked out of Europe for bad behaviour, a young John Mitchell finds himself in a "Red Market" speakeasy in Manhattan, 1923. The music is hot, the crowd is cold, and the blood is always warm. Featured non-canon monsters include the leader of the American vampires, a Jazz Age ghost, and several female Old Ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exiled

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Psmith73 for the pre-pub review and encouragement!

_**A Crypt in Shoreditch, England, 1923** _

Herrick was nervous. It wasn't like him, but then, he'd never been so sure that something very bad was about to happen. Hetty had been angry with him for months, and the attack at the ballroom had only made her angrier.

As he sat facing Hetty and four other Old Ones, he felt like a criminal on trial. And, in essence, he was. Hetty had to make things as dramatic as possible, pull other Old Ones from all over Europe into it as if this minor setback was any of their concern. Judging him with Hetty were Delledonna, the head of the Italian base; the Austrian Frau Wilhelm; the Dane Astrith; and Madame Boucher, who came from France. Women, all of them.

"We have a problem, Herrick," Hetty said sternly, smoke billowing out of her long cigarette holder.

"I know," he said. "I know. And I told you, I'm taking care of everything. Nothing like this will happen again."

"They're calling it _eine Symphonie des Grauens_ ," said Frau Wilhelm, in a thick German accent. "Like the picture. They think the picture has come real in Britain."

Herrick looked at her blankly.

"A Symphony of Horror," said Wilhelm, leaning forward. " _Nosferatu_? Don't you know, they're making moving pictures about us now? People believe what they see in the pictures."

"Only if we give them reason to believe it's real," said Hetty. She took a drag from her cigarette and looked at Herrick. "I didn't care for it," she said. "Portraying us like we're disgusting, beady-eyed creatures with bald heads and claws. It's a slap in the face, really."

"Be that as it may," said Delledonna, "He's brought attention to us again, because you can't control him."

"He's still young," said Herrick.

Hetty was unfazed. "You've been saying that for seven years."

Herrick shook his head. "You blamed it on the criminal underground," he said. "They don't know, it's been covered up..."

"That's not good enough," said Hetty. "He's a loose cannon, and we can't have that."

"He's learned his lesson," Herrick said. "Please. If you'll only give him one more chance --"

"He's used up his last chance," said Hetty. She stamped out her cigarette. "We've voted," she said, glancing at the others. "And we've decided on execution."

Herrick looked from Hetty to the others in disbelief. He expected punishment, but not this. "No," he said, rising to his feet. "I won't let you..."

Hetty looked at Delledonna. "Why is he talking as if this is a matter for debate?" she asked.

"Once he's harnessed, he could be the greatest asset we've ever had," said Herrick. "He's got the potential. You've said it yourself, Hetty!"

"We're done cleaning up his messes," said Madame Boucher. "He's a danger to us all."

Herrick scanned the five Old Ones. "If you execute him," he said, "You'll have to execute me, too."

"I don't think that's a problem," said Wilhelm.

Hetty flinched. "That's not for you to decide," she said, glaring at Wilhelm. "I turned Herrick, what happens to him is my decision."

Herrick nodded. "Then what happens to Mitchell is my decision."

"That isn't how it works," Hetty said. She slid another cigarette into the holder and lit it.

He approached her, and looked her straight in the eye. "Then you'll have to execute me," he said to Hetty. " _You_ have to do it."

She stared back at him. "Don't think I won't."

Herrick knew better. "Or we could leave," he said. "We'll leave Britain, leave Europe."

Hetty kept her eyes on Herrick, and leaned back. "So your boy can expose us on another continent?"

"No. You'll see," Herrick said, "It won't happen again."

"The decision is made," Wilhelm said, waving her hand.

"The decision," Hetty said, facing her, "was not to execute the both of them."

"So you'd send him to Cobbs?" Asked Astrith, referring to the oldest vampire in North America. "Cobbs doesn't want them."

"Cobbs is barely 150 years old," Hetty said. "Cobbs will take what I give him."

"Not without another vote, he won't," said Delledonna.

* * *

 

Herrick walked out into the hall, still shaken.

Mitchell was sitting on the floor, against a stone wall, his arms resting on his knees. He looked up at him. "What did they want?" he asked.

"They want your head on a platter," Herrick said angrily.

"Why?"

"I told you," Herrick said, grabbing Mitchell by the collar and pulling him to his feet. "I told you, you can't go around leaving piles of bodies out in the open. I've told you again and again, Mitchell --"

"Oh, is this about the ballroom?" Mitchell asked, "because that bloke disrespected me--"

"And the other twelve?"

Mitchell shrugged. "They were there." Herrick released him in disgust. "Look, Herrick, what's the point if you have to follow rules?"

"The point is, if the humans find out about us, it's all over. There's a protocol--"

"Oh, fuck protocol," Mitchell said, straightening his shirt.

Herrick glared at him. "They wanted to execute you, you know."

Mitchell blinked. "For what, doing what we do? I didn't ask for this. You can't... turn me into an animal and then get mad when I act like one..."

"Animals," Herrick said, "need to be tamed."

"Fine, execute me," Mitchell said. "I don't care."

"Nobody's executing anyone," Herrick said. "We're going to America."


	2. Cobbs

_**Upper Manhattan, 1923** _

__

Herrick and Mitchell made their way down the dark alleyway. They’d spent six weeks on a boat to get to New York City, surrounded by emigrants almost as miserable as they were. Mitchell was looking forward to a comfortable bed, but it didn’t look like he’d be seeing one anytime soon.

Mitchell made a face. "Can't we ever meet in proper places? Always so dark and dirty..."

"And what would you prefer?"

Mitchell shrugged. "Anything but this."

Herrick ran his hand across the concrete wall. When he found the right spot, he knocked. A small slot slid open.

"You are?" a voice grumbled from inside.

"Mr. Herrick. Mr. Cobbs is expecting us."

"Words," the voice said.

Mitchell rolled his eyes. Herrick ignored him and leaned in to whisper something into the open slot.

After a few seconds, a door-sized part of the wall opened up. Herrick looked at Mitchell. "Don't say a word," he hissed, before leading him inside.

A tall, thin man with slicked back blonde hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips was standing in a tiny room with metal walls. A small table and chair, strewn with ashes overflowing from a small ashtray and playing cards, were set up near the door, which he shut quickly.

"This way," the man said, opening a second door on the other side of the room. This time, they were hit with a blast of sound and light, horns blaring. Mitchell perked up.

Herrick took off his hat as Mitchell poked him in the arm, as if he couldn't see and hear what was happening behind the door. He knocked Mitchell's hat off. "Be polite," he said, before smiling at the blonde man and stepping inside.

Mitchell reached down and picked up his hat, running his fingers through his short hair sideways, before following. Inside, it was like nothing he'd ever seen or heard before. The music was loud and raw and alive. People twisted and jumped, men with their jackets off and girls -- lots of girls -- in tiny costumes, bare flesh showing, all legs and short hair and feathers.

"What is this place?" Mitchell shouted in Herrick's ear.

Herrick put an arm around Mitchell's shoulder. "This," He shouted back, "Is what they call a speakeasy."

Mitchell nodded, eyes wide. "And why haven't we come here before?"

Herrick smiled as the song ended and the crowd dispersed, exhausted, to tables set around the dance floor. Mitchell saw a man in a loose suit down a shot of red liquid.

"They serve blood here?"

"Don't speak," Herrick said. "It's a special kind of speakeasy."

Mitchell leaned over the railing. They were on a low balcony. "Well, let's go down there."

"Not now," Herrick said. "We have business first." He nodded toward a shadowy man walking toward them. "Let me do the talking."

"You gotta be Herrick!" the man bellowed as he approached. "Just off the boat! Welcome to The Sundown!"

"It's good to finally meet you in the flesh, Mr. Cobbs," Herrick said, shaking his hand.

"Just Cobbs, just Cobbs," he said. He looked at Mitchell. Cobbs was nothing like Mitchell had expected. For one thing, he had dark skin, the color of mahogany.

"This is John Mitchell," Herrick said. "I'm sure his reputation precedes him."

Cobbs nodded and shook Mitchell's hand with a cold, firm grip. "So this is John Mitchell," he said. He eyed him up. "Ain't what I expected."

"What did you expect?" Mitchell asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Cobbs said. "Not so skinny, for sure. Redder hair."

Mitchell tilted his head. "A harp, maybe?"

Herrick flinched, but Cobbs let out a hearty laugh. "I like you, boy," he said. He put his arm around him and shook him. "I like this one!" He looked at Herrick. "You go down, have a drink, meet some of the girls..."

"Oh," said Herrick, looking slightly confused. "Well, I should probably stay with him."

Mitchell shrugged. "I'll go down and have a drink."

Cobbs laughed. "They'll be time for that, they'll be time for that..." he said. He looked at Herrick. "Go," he said. He turned to Mitchell. "Walk," he said, turning. Mitchell followed.

"You go by John, or Mitchell?"

"Mitchell."

"Ever fight in a war, Mitchell?"

Mitchell nodded. "The big one," he said.

"I been through two," Cobbs said. "Well, three, if you include the big one. Never did sign up. I was turned by one of yours, in 1772."

"Sorry?"

"An Irish fella named O'Rourke," Cobbs said. "You hear of him?"

Mitchell shook his head. "Did he have red hair?"

Cobbs laughed. "Naw, more like... tan. He made me what I am," he said. "Gave me power. Gave me freedom. I was emancipated almost a hundred years early."

Mitchell thought for a moment. He didn't have to do the math to figure out that Cobbs had been a slave. He tried not to stare at him in curiosity.

Cobbs stopped at a door, and opened it to a small office. He waved Mitchell in and pointed to a wooden chair, then sat down behind a large desk. Now Cobbs was starting to feel more like an Old One.

"Old O'Rourke. He musta passed in... 1865, '66. A damn shame."

"That's when you became the leader?"

"Naw," Cobbs said. "That came later. One day a letter come saying I was the oldest one America. In America! Not counting the Indians. They got their own jurisdiction."

Mitchell nodded slowly.

"Drink?" Cobbs offered.

"Please."

Cobbs poured two glasses of blood. "Still warm," he said, handing one to Mitchell. "We got a system," he said. "I supply the syndicate with hooch, they give us their warm bodies. Nice and clean. Shit, they was throwing them in the East River for years. But if there's one thing my Mama taught me, it's don't waste food."

Mitchell smiled. He took a drink and set the glass down. "So they... respect you? The Old Ones and all?"

"Respect a negro, you mean?" Cobbs said.

Mitchell shrugged.

"Well, I'll tell you," Cobbs said. "Out there," he pointed behind him, "out in the streets, I'm nothing. I'm lower than dirt. But in here," he pointed to the desk, "I'm the king. You better believe they respect me. White, black, brown, even a few yellow.... They. Respect. Me. Do you know how much power you have in you, boy?"

Mitchell instinctively shook his head.

"More than even a hot-headed snot-nose like you can imagine," Cobbs said. He gulped down the contents of his glass and poured them each another. "The Old Ones say you a loose cannon. That's what they say. 'Loose cannon.' Tore up a ballroom, did you?"

"Well, they disrespected me...."

Cobbs laughed. "Shit... Do you know how many I'd've killed if I went off on every piece of meat that disrespected me? Shit." He leaned forward. "They'd be near extinct." He sat back, arms crossed. "You think you tough?"

"I don't think I'm tough," Mitchell said. "I just... see red sometimes and I can't..."

"You been turned for how long?"

Mitchell swallowed. "Seven... seven years."

"When you gonna grow up?"

Mitchell looked at him in silence.

"Around here, I run things nice and clean," Cobbs said. "I ain't like the Old Ones in Europe. I don't give no second chances." He took a drink. "Now, you, Mitchell, you look like a nice boy to me. I got no problem with you, Mitchell. You got a problem with me?"

"No," Mitchell said.

" _"No Sir,'_ " Cobbs said.

"No, Sir."

"Understand, this is my world. This club, this city, this goddam country." His expression went cold. "And you will respect me."


	3. Sundown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If spoilers for 90 year old movies concern you, spoiler alert for the 1922 film "Blood and Sand."

_**The Sundown Club, Upper Manhattan, 1923** _

"Been here long?" The familiar voice gave Herrick a start. He turned in surprise.

"Ivan," he said. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Ivan slid next to him at the bar. "Well, I heard the music was good," he said. "And, with this ridiculous alcohol prohibition, the blood is flowing..." He motioned for two shots.

Herrick looked out at the crowded club. "It's like a different world, isn't it?" he said.

"Different indeed," Ivan said. He handed Herrick a shot and held his up in an informal toast before drinking it. He scanned the crowd, his eyes stopping on Mitchell, seated at a booth, surrounded by a mosaic of pretty young dancing girls, all of their attention on him. "Well, some things stay the same," he said.

Herrick nodded. "If he's not careful, he'll get himself killed. I've heard these girls have fight in them."

"They only kill if you don't take no for an answer," Ivan said matter-of-factly. "If they like you... well. Those pretty little things have no fear. They're well-trained. Your fangs won't even come out." He lit a cigarette. "Of course, if they do come out, you're dead."

"Like I said," Herrick said. "He'll get himself killed."

Ivan smiled and headed toward Mitchell's booth. All of the girls were human. As the story goes, Cobbs got tired of having to bring in new human dancing girls every week to meet the demands of his clientele, so he taught them how to stay alive, with the help of his headlining burlesque dancer, Bebe, a vampire. Bebe walked around the club nightly, swathed in feathers and pearls, her eyes, irises black even under normal conditions, piercing the men. She carried a full-sized stake, but her girls, the human ones, wore sharp wooden spikes around their necks. They got the job done just as well.

"Well, look who it is!" Ivan said, approaching Mitchell.

Mitchell looked up and blinked with recognition. "Ivan?" He stood, one young thing still attached to his arm. "Good to see you." He looked at the girl on his arm, all eyes and dramatic pincurls. "This is Ruby," he said, "and," he pointed to the other girls one by one, "Lola, Sweetie, and Rosie, and this is Violet." They each looked pleased that he'd remembered her name.

"Charmed," Ivan said. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

"Oh," said Mitchell, changing the subject, "What's the name of that picture? With the vampire fella in Germany?" He eased back into his seat.

" _Nosferatu_ ," said Ivan.

"That's it," said Mitchell, banging his fist on the table. " _That's it!_ "

"Have you seen it?" Ivan asked, taking a free seat across from Mitchell.

"Can't say I've seen it, no," said Mitchell.

"Well," said Ivan, taking a drag of his cigarette, "It's not very good."

"I don't like scary pictures," said Violet, sliding next to Ivan.

"I don't either," said Ruby. "There are enough dreadful things in the world. The picture show should be funny! Don't you agree, Mitchell?"

He looked at her and nodded. "I like funny pictures, yeah."

"Well, I don't care if it's funny, scary, or what have you, as long as Valentino is in it," said Sweetie, and the other girls swooned in agreement.

"Is Valentino in that picture of yours?" Violet asked.

Mitchell shook his head. "Why would Valentino play in a German picture?"

Sweetie clicked her tongue. "Oh, Valentino can play anything, honey," she said. "Did you see _The Sheik_?"

"Of course," Mitchell said.

"Oh," said Violet, "Did you see _Blood and Sand_ , Sweetie? Oh, I honestly cried for days!"

Ruby covered her mouth, as if she was going to cry right then.

"He didn't really die," Mitchell said. "It was just a story."

Ruby sniffed. "I just think the picture show should be funny, is all."

The bandstand lit up, and a man in white tails appeared out of thin air in front of the musicians. "I'm Willy Parker," he announced. "I was stabbed sixteen times outside the Starburst Club six months ago. Fuck if I thought I would ever lead a band again!" The crowd cheered. "Stabbed sixteen times for four dollars. Four dollars! But that won't keep Willy Parker down!" He started stamping his foot in time, though it made no sound. "C'mon, give it to me!" he called, and the room stomped along as the girls got up and headed for the floor, straightening their tops and stroking their hair.

"Sounds like Willy is onstage," Violet said, standing. "That's our cue."

***

Once he saw that bandleader Willy Parker was a ghost, Mitchell started noticing that there were quite a few of them in the club that night. He spent the set shifting from watching the girls dance to picking them out. There were two men in dark blue soldier's uniforms -- the Civil War, he guessed -- sitting at a table; a woman in tattered clothes and no shoes, clearly an exception to the dress policy; a man dressed in a train conductor's uniform; a woman dressed way too old-fashioned and conservatively for a speakeasy; a man in a perfectly coiffed powdered wig. He'd never seen so many of them in one place before. Certainly never among vampires.

When the set ended, he leaned over to Ivan. "Why do they come here?" he asked, nodding toward the soldiers.

Ivan shrugged, and set down his glass. "Well, I imagine it's more fun than haunting an old battlefield."

Mitchell nodded. "You'd think there would be more of them, thousands." He'd never really thought about it before.

"Most of them crossed over," Ivan said.

Before Mitchell could get another question out, the girls returned to the booth, glowing with sweat. As if they'd arranged to rotate, Lola and Rosie slid beside him, while Ruby and Sweetie took the seat opposite,, with Violet still eyeing Ivan.

"Next time, you should dance with us, Mitchie," Lola said.

Mitchell tried to resist cringing in response to the nickname, but suspected he'd failed to. "Oh, I wouldn't know where to start."

"There are no rules," Rosie said, lighting his cigarette. He smiled at her, then noticed Willy just a few feet away, mingling with the crowd.

"Excuse me a moment, ladies," he said, and made is way over to him. When the moment was right, he got Willy's attention. "That was amazing," he said, touching the ghost's arm. He immediately, instinctively pulled his hand away, the sensation was so foreign.

"Oh," Mitchell looked at his hand. "I'm sorry..."

"Nothin' to be sorry about," Willy said. "I know what I am." He grinned. "This your first time?"

Mitchell nodded. "My first time in New York."

"Well, shit! Welcome to New York!"

"The music is just --" he grasped for words. "It's the greatest thing I've ever heard."

"Spoken like a man who never heard Sweatman!" Willy laughed. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed. "Thank you man," he said. "Man oh man, I been blessed."

Mitchell nodded. "Well, I should--"

Herrick came up behind him. "We should be going," he said.

Mitchell turned to look at him. "Going?"

"Well, it's been a long night," Herrick said.

Mitchell looked at his booth, then back to Herrick. "But the girls..."

"You've had your fill of blood, you don't need the girls."

"But... not even one?"

"Not one of these girls." Herrick put his hand on Mitchell's back. "Come along, tomorrow's another day."


	4. The Test

When Herrick awoke in the boardinghouse, he found Mitchell's bed empty.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, pulling on his clothes as quickly as he could.

He was out of breath by the time he reached the back door of the Sundown Club. He knocked, waited, and knocked again. The slot opened.

"Words," a voice said.

"It's Herrick. Let me in."

There was a pause. "Words," the voice repeated flatly.

"Oh for God's -- 'the _fucking_ chair is on the _fucking_ floor!'"

A few moments passed. The door was opened by a short dark-haired man.

"Jesus, keep your voice down," the man said.

"Just let me in," Herrick said.

When the man opened the second door, there was no music, no light. Herrick removed his hat and entered.

"Cobbs!" he shouted, "Where is he?"

Cobbs looked up at him from the bar. Bebe and the blonde-haired doorman flanked him. "Herrick," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Where is Mitchell? I know he's here."

"He's getting changed," Cobbs said. "We had a warm one earlier, needed his help getting him hooked up."

Herrick made his way downstairs. "And you thought you'd just fetch him without waking me up?"

"We didn't 'fetch' nobody," Cobbs said. "He was here playing cards with Charlie when the body came in." He tilted his head, indicating the doorman.

"Look, we appreciate all of your help, but Mitchell is my responsibility."

A door opened on the other side of the bar, and Mitchell emerged, dressed in a white shirt under a dark waistcoat, and the same sort of baggy trousers Cobbs wore. He shook his left hand at his side.

"Ayyy, Herrick!" Mitchell said with a smile. Two of the dancing girls from the previous night exited behind him, arms entwined, walking toward the back of the club, lost in conversation.

"And where have you been?" Herrick asked.

"My clothes got bloody," Mitchell said. "And these will too, if I don't wrap this up," he said, licking the blood from his hand.

Bebe got up and went behind the bar. "Let me see," she said, waving Mitchell over.

"I told you," Herrick said, "these girls will kill you."

Mitchell sat on a barstool and held out his hand to Bebe. "Well, they didn't kill me, did they?"

"Trust me," Bebe said, wiping Mitchell's hand with a wet cloth. "If he'd stepped out of line, he wouldn't be walking."

"Thank you!" Mitchell said. "It was just a bit of fun, Herrick. Remember fun?"

"I'll need to stitch this up," Bebe said.

Mitchell pulled his hand away. "It'll be healed by this afternoon," he said.

"And you'll be bleeding on my floor till then," she said, snatching it back.

Cobbs clapped Herrick on the back. "He passed the test," he said.

Herrick was not amused. "And if he'd failed, he'd be dead."

"Well... that's what makes it a test, ain’t it?" He laughed.

Bebe threaded a needle from the first aid kit behind the bar and bit off the end. "Hold still," she said. She poked the needle into his skin. He didn't flinch. She glanced at him. "You're a cold one," she said.

"You do this often?" He asked her.

"That don't work on me," she said, stitching the wound quickly. "But yes. I used to be a nurse."

"You don't look like a nurse."

She gave him a look. "I didn't look like this when I was." She tied off the end of the thread, and pulled his hand up to her mouth to bite it off. "You're done," she said, dabbing it with the cloth before walking away.

Mitchell turned to Herrick. "Oh, don't give me that look."

"I didn't spend six weeks on a godforsaken boat to have you killed on your first day here."

"Why did you spend six weeks on a 'godforsaken boat,' Herrick? They wanted to get rid of me, not you." He lit a cigarette. "Shit, Hetty fuckin' loves you."

"Someday you'll understand."

Mitchell exhaled. "I doubt that. Besides, no one was gonna kill me. I wasn't gonna kill them, either." He flicked an ash into the ashtray and leaned in to whisper to Herrick. "My teeth didn't even come out."

"That's because they weren't afraid," Herrick said. "Don't get used to it."

"Why not? They sent us here, we'll stay here for a while."

Herrick shook his head. "Don't get too comfortable."

"Why the hell not?"

Herrick glanced at Cobbs as he walked with Charlie toward the balcony. He leaned in to Mitchell and lowered his voice. "Is this what you want, Mitchell? To be Cobbs' toadie? You want to spend your time tapping mob hits, making cheap hooch, opening doors for people?"

Mitchell took a drag, looking at him suspiciously. "Oh, I see," he said, smoke spilling out of his mouth as he spoke. "I see, you don't want me to be Cobbs' toadie, you want me to be _your_ toadie..."

"Do I not treat you like an equal?"

"No, not especially."

Herrick leaned back in offence. "Well, I would if you... if you controlled yourself."

"I just had two girls and I didn't kill either of them."

"Oh, and you think that was some kind of grand achievement? You think Cobbs did in twelve hours what I couldn't in seven years? He's taught them how to do it. It was them, not you. It's little more than a parlor trick."

"So what if it is?"

Herrick sighed in exasperation. "We do things a certain way. This is not our way."

"When in Rome," Mitchell said, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Herrick leaned in. "You're only here because I put myself up. Because I told them they’d have to execute me, too."

Mitchell glared at him. "I never asked you to do that. I never asked for any of this."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have saved you, then."

Mitchell stood up. "Yeah. _Perhaps_ you shouldn't have."

* * *

 

Willy sat on the edge of the stage. As he jotted notes down on a piece of paper, he made melodic sounds to himself.

"Hey Willy," Mitchell said, sitting down a few feet from him.

Willy glanced over at him, his concentration broken. "Hey..." he paused. "I didn't catch your name..."

"Mitchell."

"From... England?"

"No. Got kicked out of England, though." He gave a thumbs-up and clicked his tongue. "I lived there for a while."

"Why'd they kick you out?"

"Oh, you know," Mitchell said, "Politics."

"Heh."

Mitchell nodded toward the paper. "You writing a song?"

"Tryin' to," Willy said with a sigh. "I been trying to finish it since... well, before I was dead. This was gonna be the one that made me famous."

Mitchell eyed the saxophone in the open case near Willy. "Play it for me."

Willy looked at the sax. "Oh, I can't play anymore. Not like this. I just keep my piece here because..." he shrugged. "Well, I don't know why I do."

"You can still write music, though," Mitchell said. "I wish I could write music like that. I wish I was good at something."

"Everyone's good at something," Willy said.

"I'm not," Mitchell said, with a pause. "Good at killing, I guess."

Willy frowned. "Well, that ain't nothing to be proud of."

"Nothing to do with pride. It just is."

Willy shook his head. "You vampires," he said. "Do you know what it's like to be killed?"

Mitchell looked at him. "Yes."

Willy paused. "Well, anyways.... You should be more like Cobbs. Cobbs don't kill."

"Oh, of course he does, mate -- of _course_ he does!"

"You watch what you say, boy. Those men would be dead anyway. At the bottom of the river."

"Maybe. But you know as well as I do, those blokes ain't even dead. Cobbs doesn't take dead bodies, he takes warm bodies. I hooked one up myself. He was breathing and all."

Willy crossed his arms. "I know it," he said. "How do you think I got here?"

Mitchell looked at him. "Jesus, Willy," he said.

Willy shrugged. "It was an opportunity. What was I gonna do? Run around in the street, where no one could see me? There was no saving me. I was stabbed sixteen times. Gettin' hooked up to that tap was the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Jesus. Do you --" Mitchell paused. "No, don't tell me. Just thinking about it is givin' me the heebie jeebies."

Before Willy could respond, Charlie interrupted. "Hey runt," he said, "We got work to do. Got an order for hooch, we gotta bring it up from the still."

Mitchell looked at him. "' _Runt_ '?"

"Cobbs' orders," Charlie said.


	5. Charlie

The basement of The Sundown wasn't nearly as nice as the upper part. In fact, it reminded Mitchell of that crypt in Shoreditch.

"So you make booze down here?" Mitchell asked.

"The best in town," Charlie said. "Or the worst, depending on who you ask. It'll take the paint offa a motorcar. You can't get nothin' stronger. Coffin varnish, they call it."

"Why don't they just buy proper whiskey?"

"Ain't you heard of Prohibition?" Charlie asked. "There ain't no buying whiskey. It's against the law. Speakeasys ain't just for vampires anymore. Regular people got secret clubs for hooch, too. Don't you know anything?" He pointed to a shelf lined with gas cans. "Grab two of those," he said, collecting two himself.

"You put it in gas cans?"

"Well, we ain't puttin' em in barrels marked 'hooch'!"

Charlie motioned toward the still. He opened one of the empty gas cans and set it under the spigot. A cloudy liquid poured out into the can. "This might take a while."

Mitchell leaned against the metal still and lit a cigarette. "So, you been here long?"

Charlie shrugged. "A while."

"How long you been turned?"

"What is this, the third degree?"

Mitchell shrugged. "Just making conversation."

They stood in silence for a while. "Is it true what they say about you?" Charlie asked, finally.

"What do they say about me?"

"They say you killed a hundred people in one night."

"Who says that?"

Charlie turned the spigot shut and screwed the cover on the can. "Everyone," he said.

Mitchell thought for a moment.

"So is it true?"

"Well," Mitchell said, taking a drag, "You know... I lost count."

"Man oh man," Charlie said, "what did you do with all the blood?"

"Drank some of it. Didn't drink some of it."

"Wasting blood? So you just killed 'em to kill 'em?"

"Sure, but I quit that. I'm on the level now."

Charlie nodded. "Cobbs would skin you alive if you did that around here."

Mitchell exhaled, nodding back. "Still," he said, "I wouldn't mind a good old-fashioned feeding."

"You an' me both."

Mitchell handed him an empty can and leaned toward him. "You and me should go out later and find some girls... a city this big? There's millions of them out there."

Charlie gave him a disgusted look.

"Or... fellas... if that's what you --"

"Look here, Mitchell, it's one thing to want an old-fashioned feeding, see... and another to start snatching people from the streets. Do you want the whole NYPD swarming this place?"

Mitchell just looked at him. "NYPD?"

"The coppers, you dipshit." Charlie starting filling the second can. "Jesus, I'd think you'd know all about ‘em. Use your head, man, what would happen if we got raided and shut down?"

Mitchell flicked his cigarette butt to the floor. "'We' really isn't my area."

Charlie laughed. "Says the one who showed up with a nanny."

* * *

 

By the time Mitchell and Charlie got up to the back door, a commotion was in full swing.

"Jesus fuck!" Cobbs shouted, covering his nose and turning away from the half dead body before him.

Mitchell and Charlie stopped short as they got to the door.

"A fucking lycos!" Charlie said, dropping one of his cans.

"What," said the human guy delivering bodies. "What?"

Mitchell thought he was going to be sick. "You don't smell that?" he asked.

"We don't take lycos," Cobbs said. "You trying to kill my people?"

"Lycos?" the human guy said, confused.

"Take it back," Cobbs said. "Take em all back, they all contaminated."

The man shook his head. "I can't leave without our cut."

"Ain't no cut for you," Cobbs said. "No lycos. It's in the contract."

"Well, how was we supposed to know?"

Cobbs reached into his pocket and pulled out a revolver. "Stand back, boys," he said, and he shot the half-dead body dead. He cocked the gun and pointed it at the human. "Get it out of here, or you'll get it, too," he said. The man, a tough looking wiseguy, stood speechless. He was armed, but he knew enough to know that shooting wouldn't drop them.

"Right," he said. "I... I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

Cobbs nodded, and walked back inside, Mitchell following closely.

"Why didn't you kill that bastard?" Mitchell asked.

"I ain't havin' my men touch that," Cobbs said. "Besides, he'll get his when he goes back to his boss empty-handed."

Mitchell nodded.

"Nice and clean, see?"


	6. Killing the Dead

Herrick was annoyed. In less than a month, Mitchell had gone from pariah to favorite son. He walked around the Sundown like he owned the place, dressed like a common gangster, doing his "jobs" without a whine or a whimper. Even Bebe seemed to have warmed to him.

"He'll slip," Herrick said to Ivan, taking a drink.

"I thought you didn't want him to slip," Ivan said.

"I don't want him to slip. He _will_ slip."

"Oh, and then you can rescue him again," Ivan said. "It seems to have become your favorite pastime."

"That's easy for you to say," Herrick said, "All you've got is you."

"And I intend to keep it that way. Emotions are messy."

"It's not emotion," Herrick said. "It's duty."

"Well, you're doing your job," Ivan said. "He's managed to fit in here. Somehow."

"If he thinks he's staying here any longer than we have to --"

"Oh, he's not a child, Herrick."

"He's thirty years old, Ivan," Herrick said. "Thirty."

"Well..."

"Don't tell me he's not a child."

* * *

 

Willy waved sheets of paper in the air, motioning for Mitchell to come over.

"I did it! It's done!"

"What, your song?" Mitchell asked.

"And I got you to thank!"

"Me? What did I do?"

"I just kept thinkin' about what you said. Over and over in my mind, until it hit me: that's it!"

"What did I say?"

Willy held up the papers, title out. "'Heebie Jeebies.' You told me I gave you the heebie jeebies!"

"What? I wouldn't say that."

"But you did! You said it, Mitchell! And it was what I needed to finish it." He smiled proudly. He put the sheet music in his hand. "Now, you give this to one of them big bandleaders. Have 'em play my song!"

Mitchell looked at the papers. "But... you're the only bandleader I know."

"Aw, there's a million of 'em in this city," Willy said. "You'll find one."

Mitchell looked bewildered. "OK." He became aware that a small crowd was forming around them -- the band, the bartenders, Bebe, even Herrick and Ivan.

Willy raised a finger, and picked up his sax case. He held it out to Mitchell. "And I want you to have this."

Mitchell was feeling self-conscious. "No, I couldn't. I don't even play..."

"From me to you. I won't be needin' it where I'm going."

"But... where are you going?"

Willy placed the case at Mitchell's feet and stepped back to faced the crowd. He clasped his hands in front of him and bowed. "It has been my honor and pleasure to perform for you folks," he said. Everyone started clapping. It was then Mitchell saw it, a door at the back of the stage that hadn't been there before. He turned to Herrick.

"What's happening?" he asked as Willy made his way to the door.

"Well," Herrick said, "it appears that song was his unfinished business. He can cross over now."

"Oh, God, so I killed him?"

Herrick and Ivan laughed.

"What's funny?"

"It's not a bad thing in their culture," Ivan said. "It's a... an achievement."

"Yeah, some achievement."

"Well, look at it this way, Mitchell," Herrick said, as Willy made his departure, "You've moved up to killing the dead with inane phrases."

"I think that deserves a drink," Ivan said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willy's song "Heebie Jeebies" is a fictionalized version of the hit song of the same name recorded by Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five in 1926. The real song was written by sax player and bandleader Boyd Atkins sometime in the preceding years. Though the song was hugely popular, the details of Atkins' life and death are largely unknown.


	7. Nice and Clean

Things changed after Willy left. For the first time since he'd stepped into the Sundown, Mitchell thought about leaving. There was a new bandleader, of course, one of the vampires who'd played in the band, but just wasn't the same, and he found himself thinking about killing -- proper feeding -- more and more. He slid Willy's song into the mailbox of a club the vampires in the band said had one of the best bandleaders around. He would have given it to him in person, but no one answered when he knocked and he wanted to avoid the crowds.

By the time he got back to the Sundown, it was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, and the place was deserted. He let himself in -- he didn't have to go through a doorman to get in anymore.

He started to help himself to a drink at the bar when he heard stirring in the girls' dressing room. He wasn't alone after all, it seemed.

He slipped into the dressing room. Ruby was sitting in front of a mirror, tweezers in hand, plucking her brows. She paused and looked in the mirror, expecting to see one of the other girls in the reflection, but she saw nothing. She turned as Mitchell approached her.

She jumped. "Mitchell!" she gasped. "Gosh, you scared me!" She laughed.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to." He smiled. "You look pretty."

"Oh, I'm a mess," she said, turning back to the mirror. "My makeup isn't done yet."

"You don't need it," he said, placing a hand on the back of her neck. He could feel her shiver.

She looked at him. "Did Cobbs send you in?" she asked.

"Oh," he said, looking back toward the bar. "Yeah. Yeah, he did."

"Oh, well, I wish he had told me. I would have gotten ready sooner." She smiled, and stood up. "Well, that's fine," she said, reaching for her spike necklace on the vanity.

He grabbed her wrist. "You don't need that," he said. "Don't you trust me?"

She looked up at him. "I... of course I trust you, Mitchell, don't be silly."

"Good," he said.

* * *

 

Mitchell wiped the blood from his face with the palm of his hand. He could hear someone entering the club -- one of the other toadies, he guessed, getting ready for another night at the Sundown. Ruby was on the floor, halfway under the vanity. She was dead, as dead as you could get, and he felt great.

Charlie walked into the dressing room, carrying a box. Probably costumes or feathers or cosmetics. Mitchell smiled at him. There was no way he could see Ruby from where he was.

"What're you doing in here?" Charlie asked.

"Oh," Mitchell said, "I lent one of the girls my watch last night... thought it might be in here." He looked at the vanities and back at Charlie. "I guess it's not."

"OK," Charlie said.

Mitchell walked over to him. "Poker later tonight," he said, "I ain't lettin' you walk away with all that." He patted him on the side of his face. "You're going down."

"Heh, we'll see about that!"

"You're going _down_ , mate," he said with a smile as he left.

Charlie shook his head. He put the box down on a chair near the vanities and opened it. One new costume for each girl. He pulled one out for Ruby and turned to place it on her vanity. That's when he saw her. He dropped the costume and rushed to her, falling to his knees beside her.

"Christ, she's gone cold," he said aloud in a panic. He looked around, unsure what to do, when he tasted blood on his lips. He touched his face, the spot where Mitchell had patted him. The blood was everywhere. And it was in that moment, kneeling over a dead girl, his face smeared in blood, that Bebe walked in. She didn't scream, she didn't cry, she didn't hesitate. It was over for Charlie in an instant.


	8. Epilogue

22 November, 1923

Dear Council,

It has now been six weeks since John Mitchell, DOC 15/06/1916 (est.), under the supervision of William Herrick, UVI, arrived in New York City, under the jurisdiction of the Hon. Nathaniel Cobbs, Senior UOO of the United States of America. In this time, I have observed Mitchell cooperate fully with SR UOO Cobbs and become a productive member of the Manhattan organization. Based on said observations, I conclude that he is in fact trainable. I recommend that he be declared rehabilitated at this time and of sound mind.

With the utmost respect,

Ivan Demansk, UVI, SST


End file.
